


Send Your Youth

by elissanerdwriter



Series: Arrows to the Heart [2]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, spoilers for episode 113
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2019-01-10 12:56:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12299682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elissanerdwriter/pseuds/elissanerdwriter
Summary: She kept having nightmares, more than usual. Nightmares of her brother, standing over her as she gasped and choked and snow swirled around them. Of the Briarwoods, appearing over her bed at night, hard faces gentled by practice and sharpened by the moonlight. Of her mother, hazy and smiling, hazy and open-mouthed and too far to run to, the floor too slick. Of locked doors, of bars, of closed gates and the cold, the cold, the cold. If she could, she’d move somewhere warm, somewhere far away from Whitestone. If she weren’t Cassandra.





	Send Your Youth

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't even finished the previous work in this series but I can't get this out of my head so I need to post this and be done with it. So many things about the series of events at the end of 113 were messed up, but *spoilers start here* Cass and Vex... I'd already started the last work, but this made me pick it up again to try to emphasize these awful parallels. If I have to think about them, you do too?
> 
> Hopefully I'll come up with a less shitty and cruel end to this arc. Maybe 115 will have more Cass content for inspiration (pls).

And then. And then months later Cassandra is in Whitestone, half asleep at her desk over yet another spread of papers, hair loose and dressing gown pulled close against the castle’s chill– she was meant to have been in bed after the council meeting earlier that night (well, last night), but she couldn’t sleep.

She kept having nightmares, more than usual. Nightmares of her brother, standing over her as she gasped and choked and snow swirled around them. Of the Briarwoods, appearing over her bed at night, hard faces gentled by practice and sharpened by the moonlight. Of her mother, hazy and smiling, hazy and open-mouthed and too far to run to, the floor too slick. Of locked doors, of bars, of closed gates and the cold, the cold, the cold. If she could, she’d move somewhere  _ warm _ , somewhere far away from Whitestone. If she weren’t Cassandra.

But of course, she is. She is Lady Cassandra de Rolo, and when she can’t sleep without waking up screaming she works until her mind gives up and she drops into undisturbed unconsciousness. Sometimes it takes a few days of staring at papers with her eyes blurring until the sun rises (she goes through a lot of candles). Last night was one of those nights. Tonight, she should be able to sleep.

Except... except her nightmares have other plans for her.

She snaps to relative alertness when the room fills with a hum so grating it shakes a stack of documents to the floor. The light has changed, purple and green mixing on the floor and her lacquered desktop. Blearily, she turns her head and there is a dark rectangle blocking her view of the window almost perfectly. Something flips in her stomach.

The pull is evident from the second she’s mostly awake, whipping her hair past her face in a stream. It’s only a moment before it’s so strong her chair tips over and she’s dragged back through the portal but it feels like an eternity, her fingernails scraping into the wood as she remembers she learned to fight back, even in her dreams.

It’s not enough, of course.

On the other side she’s dumped out on a stone floor, sprawling. It’s loud and there’s screeching and light and confusion, someone’s shrieking obscenities and a deep voice is calling what might be her name and someone else yells two words and it’s silent. Someone’s hand wraps in her hair and yanks her head back and her eyes open, watering, and she sees her.  _ Her. _ She’s here. But–

A sharp, gentled smile. “Hello, my darling.”

Oh.

Cold metal on her forehead.

Is this really a dream?

She wakes up gasping. It takes the burst of distantly familiar pain and pressure in her chest and the disconnect between this and the last thing she remembers to convince her she’s not dreaming. Her eyes are open, she thinks. She’s on her back and–

It’s cold. It’s so, so cold and she can’t move. She can’t breathe. She knows this feeling, dulled in her nightmares by the passage of time. But the pulsing of blood. Blood in her chest. She knows it. Her arms are encased in metal and so is her chest and her legs. Her head lolls to the side and she coughs, again. Panic. Panic panic panic in her stomach, roiling with blood.

Picking her head up takes more strength than it did the first time. There are two wooden shafts tipped with feathers, owlbear feathers. They’re hovering before her, but not hovering, because they are in her chest. She’s going to throw up. She’s going to throw up.

Her head falls back and almost cracks against the stone. Spinning, everything’s twisting, but somewhere to the side of her she can see people standing. She can’t hear. Just her pulse in her ears, roaring. It  _ hurts _ .

Her brother is standing over her. She can’t see his face but she can see the hair, like hers. He doesn’t move either. Lost, they’re lost. There’s no snow, this time. He’ll be gone anyways.

Kneeling between them is Vex, the archer, the hunter, the lady. She’s curled over, both hands pressed to her face. Her eyes find Cass’s and neither of them look away. She’s shaking. They both are. She’s crying. One quiver.

Oh.

There are no questions in her mind. There’s no space. There’s no time. Cass gasps, “Percy,” but nobody hears her. There might have been no sound to hear. “Percival, she’s…”

Her arm is moved, lifted. She almost hears that deep voice. The room becomes sharp and clear for a moment before it vanishes. There are people around, and they are all scared. Someone else is coming. What she would have said, she doesn’t know.

The arrows. The heartbeat. The cold.

A charming lady.

Oh.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading (and I'm sorry)! Comments and kudos are always appreciated. You can find me on tumblr @elissanerdwriter.


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